


Technological Breakthroughs

by candle_beck



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-14
Updated: 2011-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candle_beck/pseuds/candle_beck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric Chavez buys a digital camera; hilarity ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Technological Breakthroughs

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted December 2003.

Technological Breakthroughs  
By Candle Beck

Eric Chavez had bought a new digital camera and decided that it was  
the coolest thing in the world.

He brought it into the ballpark every day, showing off its  
features, his face a proud beam that he owned something so awesome.

"See, look, you can see the pictures you've already  
taken . . . you can take like four thousand pictures with this memory  
chip, it's so much better than a regular camera," he enthused,  
leaning over to hold it up for Mulder's inspection.

Mulder, getting ready for practice, rolled his eyes and  
turned to hang up his shirt in his locker. "Yeah, Chavvy, I imagine  
it would be better than a regular camera, considering what you paid  
for it."

Chavez, slightly miffed, pulled the camera back, cradling it  
protectively against his chest. "Wasn't that much," he protested,  
almost petting the silver device.

Zito came over to sit on the stool next to Chavez. "Lemme  
see," he said, holding out his hand.

Chavez was happy to find someone who would appreciate the  
intensely excellent nature of his new toy, and handed it over,  
saying, "Okay, but be careful, all right, Z? Like, don't kill it."

Zito turned the camera over in his hands, fiddling with the  
button that pulled back the shutter and zoomed out the lens. "Hey,  
cool!" he exclaimed. "It comes out of nowhere!"

Chavez grinned at him, shooting Mulder an I-told-you-so  
look. He scooted closer to demonstrate some of the other  
features. "Yeah, and you can make like little movies, too. It takes  
up a lot of the memory chip, but it's so rad."

Chavez took the camera back and aimed it at Mulder, who was  
buttoning up his jersey. "Smile, Marcus," Chavez said. "You're on  
candid camera!"

Mulder reached out a hand, trying to cover the lens with his  
palm, but Chavez pulled back. Mulder grinned widely and falsely, and  
merrily shot the camera a middle finger. "I'm on idiot camera,  
anyway. And don't call me Marcus, for the seventy-ninth time."

Chavez rolled his eyes and turned back to Zito. "He's no  
fun. Mr. Barry Zito, thank you for coming to see us today on the  
Chavez Show. What can you tell us about life as an Oakland A?"

Zito grinned and sat up straighter. "Well, first thing I'd  
have to tell you is that I got the best teammates in the world. Some  
of them are a little cranky, it's true," as he tilted his eyebrows  
meaningfully in Mulder's direction, "but you know underneath they're  
just big softies."

Mulder, hearing this assessment of his character,  
snorted. "This from the man who can't sleep without his stuffed  
bear."

"Hey!" Zito half-cried, before arguing, "I can sleep without  
that bear. I just choose not to." He shifted Chavez a pleading  
look, "Cut that part out, okay, Chavvy?"

Chavez nodded, his attention zeroed in to the small screen.  
He said without looking up, "I probably won't keep this video anyway.  
It's eating up like half my memory."

He stopped taping and Zito huddled close to peer at the  
screen as he played it back, both of them snickering as a tiny  
pixilated Mulder flipped them off, watching Zito give his opinion of  
his teammates, the shaky view of the handheld camera switching over  
as Mulder responded to the accusation that he was a big softie, then  
Zito asked, "Does my hair really look like that? I mean, like, all  
the time, it looks like that?"

He raised a hand to his head and tried to push his hair down,  
but it was no use. Mulder smirked, "Yeah, Zito, it might be time to  
invest in a comb or something."

Zito scowled, self-consciously patting his own head. He  
stage-whispered to Chavez, "I think you should shoot a video of  
Mulder changing and put it up on the internet."

Chavez grinned, darting his eyes up to Mulder, who had  
clearly heard every word. "Yeah, but who'd be interested in that?"  
he teased.

Mulder affirmed, "No one. Absolutely no one would be  
interested in such a thing. So don't even think about it." He tried  
to fix the two with a threatening glare, but the effect was kind of  
ruined by the smile that itched at the corner of his mouth.

Hudson called from the other side of the locker room, "Hey,  
if your little meeting of the audio-visual club is about over, you  
guys maybe want to play some baseball?"

Chavez and Zito stood to begin changing, Chavez tucking the  
camera safely away in the pocket of his coat, hanging up in his  
locker, but the tickle of an idea had begun to sneak through his  
mind, and he decided that it was time to do a little documenting of  
the team. Without their knowledge, of course.

"Candid camera," he whispered, grinning into his locker.

* * *

A few weeks later, Chavez was hunched over his computer,  
pulling up the newly downloaded picture files from his super-cool  
digital camera.

For the better part of a month, he'd snuck the camera around  
with him, snapping shots of his friends whenever he could get away  
with it, in the locker room, from the dugout, on the field, in the  
parking lot, in bars, in their houses and apartments, wherever.  
Sometimes he would get caught and have to swear profusely to erase  
the picture. Other times he didn't even bother to be subtle, taking  
out the camera and trying to get the picture before they had time to  
pose or goof off, thus ruining the entire notion of spontaneity.

For a group of guys who spent so much time having their  
pictures taken by the press, some of them were awful squeamish about  
being caught unprepared by the flash. A lot of it was ego. With  
Mulder, certainly. He hated not being in control of how he looked,  
he hated for people to see him when he wasn't wearing his most  
charming grin, when he wasn't looking every inch of the All-Star  
pitcher that he was.

But Chavez had gotten him off guard. He had gotten them all  
off guard.

Chavez laughed a bit as he scanned the pictures, zooming in  
close, cropping. He was delighted with the results of his covert  
little experiment, loving how his teammates looked all casual and  
unprepared.

He was planning on making a big poster, a collage sort of  
thing, to hang up in the clubhouse, but for now he was just checking  
out the scenes he'd captured.

Here was Hudson sitting in the dugout, looking up at Mark  
Ellis, who was involved in some extravagant story, his hands flashing  
around, making him look like he was trying to bat flies away from his  
head, his face over-animated, eyes bugging, mouth stretched, eyebrows  
arched upwards. Hudson was listening with an amused look on his  
face, perfectly caught between interest and ridicule, watching  
Ellis's intricate retelling of the anecdote with easy good-humor.

Here were Ramon Hernandez and Miguel Tejada, in that bar in  
Berkeley, talking swiftly in rapid-fire Spanish as Scott Hatteberg  
watched them with an absolutely priceless look of confusion on his  
face.

Here were Mulder and Zito, sitting on the grass of the field,  
stretching and having a sunflower-seed spitting competition. This  
shot was great, because it caught Zito in mid-spit, his mouth pursed,  
his eyes almost crossed as he followed the path of the seed, which  
hovered tiny and out of focus in the foreground. Mulder was leaning  
back on one arm, watching him with a slight smile on his face, his  
hand digging in the bag of seeds between them as he prepared for his  
turn.

Here were the relief pitchers, all of them sitting in a line  
on the bullpen bench, unevenly placed, some sitting alone and some  
next to others, staring forward, their faces blank, like they were  
watching paint drying.

Here was Hudson kissing his wife Kim on the cheek, surprising  
her in the living room of their house, where a bunch of the team had  
gone for dinner, Hudson's arm snaked around Kim's waist, her eyes  
scrunched shut and her mouth open in a laugh, looking like a little  
girl, thrilled with the sweet gesture.

Here was the whole Oakland Athletics infield, their arms  
thrown around each other's shoulders, their legs kicked forward in a  
catastrophic imitation of a chorus line, singing along to Madonna in  
a bar, all of them about two beers past caring about looking stupid,  
their faces flushed and happy, Hatteberg laughing hysterically, his  
head pressed to Chavez's shoulder, almost falling over. Chavez had  
gotten Zito to take that picture, telling him to try and get them in  
the middle of something, don't let them compose the scene, just let  
it happen, and Zito had done well, getting both the unsteady chain of  
his crooning teammates and some of the bar's patrons, watching them  
with half-grins and exasperated looks, one particular man wrapping  
his arm around his mug of beer and eyeing the infielders  
distrustfully, like they were about to stumble and fall over him,  
spilling his precious alcohol.

Here was Terrance Long holding out his hand to Eric Byrnes,  
who was lying on his stomach on the grass after a full-out dive to  
catch a fly ball, looking up at his fellow outfielder with a grin on  
his face, his hat knocked off and his blonde hair curling in front of  
his eyes, his arm stretched out in front of him, the ball nestled  
snugly in his glove, a smear of dirt across one cheek.

Here were Mulder and Zito, standing in the trainer's room  
together, Zito's jersey unbuttoned and hanging open, revealing a  
smooth strip of his chest, Mulder reaching for something over Zito's  
shoulder, leaning close to the other man, Zito's head turned slightly  
and his eyes cast down, not tilting away from Mulder's proximity,  
standing straight and letting the other man angle their bodies  
together.

Here was Ted Lilly getting pushed into the pool at the house  
Mulder and Chavez shared with each other and anyone who needed a  
place to crash for a couple of weeks or months, an utterly stunned  
expression on his face, one arm thrown out to try and regain his  
balance, already way past the point of no return, a perfect action  
shot, just after the push but before the splash, Lilly tipping and  
pinwheeling his arm, and in the background you could see the white  
Christmas lights on their backyard fence, shining like fireflies, and  
the blurry images of their friends laughing as they watched, dotted  
around the perimeter of the pool, which glowed eerily blue, everyone  
with a bottle of beer in their hand. The picture was such that you  
couldn't really tell who had done the pushing, but Chavez knew that  
it had been Mulder, who had a theory that any night could be made  
better by throwing someone fully-clothed into a pool.

Here were Mulder and Zito and Hudson, slouching together on  
the torn, overstuffed couch in Zito's place, laughing so hard their  
faces were screwed up and their hands were draped willy-nilly over  
each other, holding on, Hudson's hand gripping Zito's arm, Zito half-  
falling over onto Mulder, whose hand was on Zito's head, his fingers  
caught up in Zito's hair. Three of the best pitchers in the game,  
and they were giddy and howling with laughter, looking all of sixteen  
years old, like they had their whole lives ahead of them.

Here was Rick Peterson watching Chad Bradford warm up, his  
arms crossed over his chest, studying the submariner's bizarre  
motion, almost scowling, like he was irritated by the fact that he  
couldn't really understand how Bradford made that sweeping underhand  
loop work, like he had no idea what possible instruction he could  
impart to the pitcher.

Here were Hatteberg and Ellis playing videogames, both of  
their faces intent, their hands working furiously over the  
controllers, gazing up at the screen, complicated flashes of light  
caught on their expressions, their elbows bumping, their shoulders  
tight as they shifted with the game, like they could move their  
players by moving their bodies, surrounded by empty Coke cans and the  
wrappers of miniature chocolate bars, the kind people gave out at  
Halloween.

Here were Mulder and Zito sitting in the dugout, grinning at  
each other, the second after a joke, their eyes lit up, their legs  
sprawled out so that they crossed, a messy tangle of limbs, both of  
them leaning back against the bench, Mulder with his hat on  
backwards, Zito bare-headed with a towel slung around his neck, a  
moment when the two looked alone in the world, beaming, their gazes  
linked, like they couldn't think of anything they'd rather be looking  
at besides each other.

Here was Byrnes, asleep on top of the covers of a hotel bed,  
where he'd collapsed after staggering back from an exceptionally late  
night out, clearly still learning how to hold his liquor like a big-  
leaguer and keep up with his teammates, particularly Hudson, who  
could drink a fleet of Russian sailors under the table and had  
absolutely no compunction about starting drinking contests with his  
less steel-livered friends. Byrnes had gotten his T-shirt off one  
arm before passing out, but that was all, and the shirt was stretched  
out of shape around his neck and other arm, a diagonal slash of his  
chest and stomach showing, and the rookie was somehow asleep with his  
head hanging off the end of the bed, his hair dripping down, his face  
blushing red, his mouth cocked open like a toddler looking for a  
pacifier, his arm flung out and propped up by the headboard, as if he  
was raising his hand to answer a question.

Here was Jermaine Dye firing a Cracker Jack at the back of  
Keith Foulke's head, down the aisle of the dugout, Dye leaning out to  
get a good aim, Foulke oblivious as he walked away, having no idea  
that a delicious caramel-covered missile was on a collision course  
with his skull.

Here was Mulder, behind Zito, his hands on Zito's shoulders,  
pushing him somewhere that Zito didn't want to go, Zito's hands up  
with palms out, trying to resist, his face wide with protest, though  
humor sparkled in his eyes. Mulder had a smile on his lips and his  
eyes on the side of Zito's face, guiding him through a crush of  
people, one of his hands curled under the collar of Zito's shirt so  
that his fingers disappeared.

Here was Zito, in the side of the frame, watching Mulder.  
Which was strange, because Mulder wasn't doing anything particularly  
interesting, he was just standing at the bar waiting for their order,  
his hip cocked out, leaning on his elbow, his eyes idly tracking  
across the glittering row of bottles. Zito was sitting alone at  
their table, one leg stretched out on an empty chair, just watching  
Mulder, the straight line of his body, the easy way he stood there  
like he owned the place, and Zito had a small smile playing on his  
face, his hand up on the table, watching Mulder waiting for their  
order.

Here were Mulder and Zito, standing in a hallway of Mulder  
and Chavez's house, Zito leaning against the wall, Mulder standing  
facing him, almost toe-to-toe, the wary shadows circling both of  
them, a triangle of light from the kitchen cutting across their  
knees, Zito looking slightly up at Mulder, both of them in profile,  
just studying each other quietly in the darkness, one of the still  
singular moments of a party winding its way down, two men standing in  
a hallway together, doing nothing but look at each other, like there  
was nothing they'd rather be doing.

Chavez, after looking over all the pictures he'd taken, sat  
back, his forehead lined, a bit perturbed.

Without realizing it, snapping the photos randomly and with  
no design, he had caught Mulder and Zito in a number of instances  
that stood out among all the other images. Mulder and Zito just  
always seemed to be doing something interesting and photo-worthy, but  
it wasn't until now that Chavez recognized that most of those moments  
were *just* Mulder and Zito, and that even the mundane, like standing  
in a hallway, or sitting in a dugout, was somehow made fascinating by  
his two teammates.

He quickly clicked open a new file and arranged all the  
pictures he had of Mulder and Zito, wanting to see them outside the  
context of the rest of the team.

Leaning forward, propping his elbows on the desk and his chin  
in his hands, Chavez studied the string of photos, trying to figure  
out what was so weird about those two together.

It was something in the eyes, wasn't it? The way they looked  
at each other, the way they could isolate themselves in a crowd of  
people, just by catching each other's gazes, the way they could read  
each other, the way they could come to decisions without saying a  
word, the way they always seemed hyper-aware of each other, Zito  
shifting unthinkingly to let Mulder slip by him, Mulder turning  
unerringly to find Zito in a corner of the bar, like they always knew  
where the other was.

And more than that, the way they were casually, comfortably  
physical with each other, having no problem standing too close, or  
slouching with their shoulders pressing together, letting their legs  
tangle, never jerking away awkward and embarrassed when their hands  
bumped on the tabletop, never particularly caring if one of them  
nodded off on a plane and awoke with his face buried in the other's  
arm, snuffling against his shirt.

Now that he was thinking about it, Chavez could remember a bunch of  
other times when the contact between Mulder and Zito hadn't even been  
accidental. When they went out and got smashed, it was Mulder and  
Zito who were always the ones stumbling back with their arms slung  
around each other's shoulders, holding each other up even if they  
weren't really drunk enough to fall down, Mulder and Zito trailing  
the rest of the group, walking slow, their hands clenched in collars  
and wrapped around necks, talking low with their heads almost pressed  
together. Sometimes when they were kicking it at Chavez and Mulder's  
place, watching a game or a movie or something, Mulder would have his  
arm up along the back of the couch, Zito almost but not quite nestled  
against him, and occasionally Zito would tip his head back against  
Mulder's arm, neither of them seeming to notice anything strange  
about it. When they were messing around in the pool, splashing and  
dive-bombing each other, it would often dissolve into a thrashing  
wrestling match, sputtering and laughing as they tried to dunk the  
other, never minding the sling of a wet arm around an equally wet  
chest, never possessed with the unimpeachable demands of personal  
space that so many of their friends swore by.

Chavez suddenly recalled a certain morning, a month or two before,  
when Zito had crashed out on their couch, his car keys confiscated  
from him the night before by Hudson after Zito had called Nomar  
Garciaparra, `Nemo Parciagarba,' thereby proving himself far too  
drunk to drive.

Chavez and Mulder had been moving carefully around their kitchen in  
the wicked sharpness of the mid-morning, their hangovers making them  
cautious and slow, wincing at the clap of a cabinet door closing and  
squinting against the freakishly bright light of the refrigerator,  
pouring bowls of cereal and glasses of orange juice, eating cold sour  
green apples.

Mulder had gone out to wake Zito, and Chavez had watched through the  
doorway, bleary-eyed and sleepy, as Mulder knelt down silently beside  
the man, who was tossed out on the couch like a broken toy, one arm  
bent over his head and the other on his stomach, one leg hanging over  
the edge, his socked foot on the floor. Mulder had lifted his hand  
and gently traced his fingers down Zito's cheek, running his thumb  
along the line of his jaw. Zito had blinked awake and smiled as he  
saw Mulder, who hadn't removed his hand from Zito's face. Zito's  
lips moved slightly, whispering something that Chavez could only  
imagine was `hey,' in that rough, barely-heard voice of the newly  
awoken. Mulder smiled back at him, and gently carded his fingers  
through Zito's hair before standing and offering the man his hand,  
saying just loud enough for Chavez to hear, "You always look like a  
kid when you're asleep."

Zito had grinned, the full-bright grin of arising into a beautiful  
day, and took Mulder's hand, letting himself be pulled up, tottering  
dizzily for a moment on his feet, clutching Mulder's arm, Mulder's  
hand going to Zito's side to steady him, and then Zito had blushed  
and ducked his head down, smiling shyly, and they had both headed for  
the kitchen, Zito rummaging for a cereal with marshmallows in it,  
Mulder rolling his eyes at Chavez and taking a sharp bite of a fresh  
apple.

Chavez, through the haze of his state of mind at the time, remembered  
thinking that it was kind of strange, the way Mulder had woken Zito  
up, trailing his hand down Zito's face, rather than just giving him a  
hardy shake on the shoulder, but he had chalked it up to Mulder being  
uncharacteristically considerate, trying not to flare the headache  
that Zito was sure to have woken up to. He hadn't thought much of  
that moment at the time, too involved in his own headache and the  
mysterious scratch on the back of his arm, which had been inflicted  
at some unremembered part of the previous night.

Now, though, thinking back on it, Chavez heard the soft affection of  
Mulder saying, "You always look like a kid when you're asleep," like  
he had had ample time to observe the other man unconscious, and the  
fact that Zito when had opened his eyes to see Mulder, he had  
instinctively smiled.

Chavez's eyes widened, a ridiculous possibility slipping into his  
mind, staring unseeing at the swarm of pictures on his computer  
monitor. "Oh, no way," he breathed out. His eyes focused, on the  
picture of Mulder and Zito standing in the hallway, the heat of their  
gazes on each other, a half a foot separating their bodies, how it  
looked like one of them was about to lean in, pull the other one  
closer, but they couldn't get any closer, not unless they . . .  
Chavez made a little choked sound in his throat. "No *way*."

He sat back, shell-shocked, and then dived for the mouse, closing the  
file, like he could erase this insanity as easily as erasing the  
picture folder from his harddrive.

But it was too late, and now all Chavez could think about was Mulder  
and Zito, his mind scrolling with two years of memories, the wild  
spiral of his imagination taking him over.

Mulder and Zito?

*Mulder* and *Zito*?

It was nuts, it was absurd. How many times had Mulder brought back  
girls to their place, how many times had he winked at pretty young  
things in bars and been covertly slipped a scrap of paper with a  
phone number scrawled on it? How many times had Chavez thought about  
approaching some woman with keen blue eyes or a star tattooed on the  
inside of her wrist, only to see Mulder stepping up ahead of him, and  
sighing, knowing that the game was already half-won, because few were  
the ladies who could resist the quick smile and smooth charm of  
Mulder when he was on?

But even as he tried to talk himself out of the very idea of anything  
more than friendship between the two, Chavez reluctantly realized  
that, actually, for the past few months, Mulder *hadn't* been  
bringing girls back, he had been accepting numbers in bars but never  
calling, shocking to notice now, but for all Chavez could see, Mulder  
hadn't been scoring, and yet he didn't seem any different. Or, at  
least, not different in the frustrated sense of the word. Mulder  
*had* seemed different recently, though, hadn't he? Almost . . .  
inexplicably joyful. Serene, a word that had never before been used  
to describe Mark Mulder.

Chavez put his hand to his head and rubbed hard at his forehead, his  
eyes scrunched shut. "This is crazy," he whispered to himself. "And  
you, my friend, are the craziest crazy that's ever crazed."

The idea was there now, and it wouldn't leave, and Chavez knew  
himself well enough to know that this sort of thing that would eat  
away at him, curiosity like a disease, he wouldn't be able to rest  
until he knew the truth. His mom used to say that Eric's favorite  
hobby was `killing the cat,' by digging after information he was  
better off not knowing, and Chavez had been forced to agree with  
her.

Sighing, Chavez stood, casting a baleful glare down at the camera,  
muttering, "Stupid insinuating piece of junk," before he headed down  
the hallway (the same hallway from the picture, he realized, his mind  
flashing the photo as he walked through the space where Mulder and  
Zito had once stood), sticking his head into the empty living room,  
then into the kitchen, finding Mulder in the latter, making a  
sandwich.

Mulder looked over his shoulder as Chavez came in hesitantly. "'Sup,  
dude?" Mulder greeted him.

Chavez skirted close to the cabinets, pulling open the refrigerator  
and staring into it blankly for a moment before he closed it again.  
He went over to stand by the counter, where Mulder was slicing a  
tomato. "Um, nothing," he replied, feeling stupid. "What're you  
making?"

Mulder angled him a sidelong look, the edge of his mouth smirking  
upwards. "Well, let's see, bread, tomato, turkey, lettuce, cheese.  
Looks an awful lot like a sandwich to me."

Chavez half-laughed at his own lame question and then looked down at  
his hands, drumming them on the counter. "Can we, like, can we  
talk?" he asked.

Mulder popped a corner of tomato in his mouth and raised his  
eyebrows. "Are we having a moment?" he asked with a grin. "We gonna  
bond or something?"

Chavez rolled his eyes. "No, but only because we're not twelve-year  
old girls. Or at least, I'm not."

Mulder began assembling his sandwich, tearing open the cheese package  
with his teeth. He spit out the little piece of plastic he'd ripped  
off and said, "Okay, so, what do you want to talk about?"

Chavez cleared his throat, trying to figure out the best way to  
phrase this, the way that wouldn't result in Mulder beating the shit  
out of him. "Um, I was just . . . is there anything going on between  
you and Zito?"

The second the question left his mouth, Chavez winced, regretting it  
fiercely. `They're just dumb *pictures*, they don't mean anything!'  
his mind berated him, and he swallowed hard.

Mulder's hands slowed, and he kept his eyes down as he asked, his  
voice carefully neutral, "What do you mean?"

Chavez took in Mulder's suddenly stilled hands, the intentionally  
blank expression on his face, and thought that that was a strange  
reaction for someone who had nothing to hide. If Mulder had nothing  
to hide.

Feeling a little more confident, Chavez still stumbled over his  
words, because this continued to be a crazy, crazy thing to be  
inquiring about. "You know, are you guys, like . . . you know."

Mulder turned to face him, his eyes hard, his mouth pulled  
taut. "No, I don't know, Chavez. Why don't you enlighten me?"

Chavez realized that Mulder was still holding the knife he'd been  
using, and that was really not the kind of thing that he wanted to  
have in Mulder's hand at this particular moment. `As if he's really  
gonna go all Texas Chainsaw Massacre on you in your own kitchen,' his  
mind scoffed, but it couldn't stem the uneasiness from rolling in his  
stomach.

Chavez ran a hand threw his hair and blew out a breath, replying  
while he stared down at the counter, "I just . . . I wouldn't freak  
or anything, if there . . . if there was something between you guys.  
I mean, I'd like to think you could trust me with something like  
that. You know, whatever it is, I don't know."

Chavez snuck a glance up at the other man, saw Mulder placing the  
knife down (thank God), and clenching his fists (maybe not thank God  
so much), and the restrained anger pulsing in the muscle in his  
jaw. "What the hell do you think you're implying?" Mulder growled  
low.

Chavez was ready to cut his losses on this one, ready to scamper back  
to his room and throw that damn camera out the window, but he knew  
he'd gone too far, Mulder wasn't going to let this go now.

Sighing, Chavez spread his hands out on the counter and asked, not  
looking at Mulder, "Are you sleeping with him?"

He felt more than saw Mulder's shock and the burst of outrage that  
ripped through the other man. He turned in self-defense, wanting to  
be facing Mulder if he was going to attack. Mulder was standing  
there, staring at him like he'd never seen him before, his eyes  
flashing furiously.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Mulder grated out.

Chavez held up his hands, trying to ward off the other man. "Look,  
man, it's not . . . I'm not saying anything, I just . . . I see  
something, I don't know, maybe it's nothing, but . . . between you  
guys, it's just, it's like, it seems like you might be maybe sleeping  
with him. Possibly. I don't know. Please don't kill me."

Mulder made a harsh sound, and then he was reaching out, grabbing  
hold of Chavez's shirt and dragging him close, pulling him almost off  
his feet, his hands fisted, his arms shaking. Chavez's hands flew up  
to Mulder's wrists, trying to get free, but Mulder was solid and  
immovable, his eyes flaring with rage.

Panicked, sensing the beating that was so clearly in his future,  
Chavez cried, "I'm one of your best friends, Mulder! You don't have  
to hide anything from me, I'm not gonna do anything to screw you  
over, I swear, and you really don't have to hit me, okay? I'm one of  
your best friends, don't do this, man."

Mulder was still for a moment, before he breathed out a massive  
exhalation, and Chavez half-expected him to just start pounding, but  
then something calmed in Mulder's eyes, and he released Chavez,  
pushing him away.

Mulder braced his arms on the counter, his head down, steadying  
himself. He spoke staring at the floor, "Why do you think that?  
What . . . what made you think that?"

Chavez, still not trusting Mulder not to come back at him with fists  
flying, answered cautiously, "Just . . . these pictures. That I've  
been taking with my new camera, you know? Seems like, in some of  
them, seems like maybe you and Zito are . . . more. Than friends.  
That you and him are something more."

Mulder shoved off the counter and turned his back on Chavez, raising  
his hands to his hips, breathing slowly. He didn't face Chavez, but  
he asked with steel running along his voice, "What if I said it was  
true?"

Mulder turned then, and pinned Chavez with an intense gaze. "Not  
that it's any of your fucking business, not that I owe you any kind  
of explanation, but what if I said, yeah, that's how it is. Me and  
Zito, yeah, we're something more than friends. What then?"

Chavez's mouth dropped open, and he was speechless for a moment,  
before he saw the warning glint in Mulder's eyes, the tight message  
that Mulder hadn't admitted anything, Chavez wasn't to take this as a  
confession, not yet.

Chavez blinked, then said bravely, with total certainty, tipping his  
head up defiantly, "I'd say that's awesome. I'd say  
congratulations. I'd wonder what Zito was thinking, getting himself  
involved with a jackass like you, when he could clearly do so much  
better. I'd ask what you did in your past life to get so lucky."

Chavez watched the other man's reaction intently, his body spurring  
with adrenaline, and Mulder sighed, leaning back against the counter,  
crossing his arms over his chest. "Yeah, that's pretty much what  
I've been asking myself, too," he replied, and it took Chavez a  
moment to fully understand what the other man was saying.

"Oh. Oh, man," Chavez said, a huge grin spreading on his face. "You  
serious? For reals, this is how it is?"

Mulder tipped him a slight smile, a brief shrugging nod of  
acknowledgement, and Chavez laughed. "Dude! That's . . . that's  
crazy! I mean, it's great, but also crazy!"

Mulder held up a hand, fighting back his own grin. "All right, calm  
down, don't go nuts. It's not such a big deal."

Chavez looked at him in disbelief, "Are you kidding? This is a huge  
deal, man, this is monumental! You and Zito, I just . . . I never  
woulda thought."

Mulder rolled his eyes. "Clearly you did think, you came in all  
fired up with these questions. But listen, Chavez," his voice  
growing serious. "You can't tell anybody, okay? I mean, nobody  
knows. Except, well, Zito, you know he can't take two steps without  
calling to tell his family about it, but nobody else knows. Not the  
team, nobody."

Chavez nodded, his mind racing with the implications of this. "Of  
course, man, I won't say a word. It's just . . . it's crazy."

"So you've mentioned," Mulder replied dryly.

Chavez leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter, his face  
bright with curiosity. "So, I mean, like, it's good? You like him  
and everything? It's not just a casual thing?"

Mulder smiled then, a real smile, his eyes softening, and said  
quietly, "Yeah, it's good. It's the best."

Chavez studied the other man, then stepped up and clapped him on the  
arm. "That's so cool, man. I'm, you know, I'm totally thrilled for  
you."

Mulder tossed him a sardonic look, saying, "And that explains why  
you're jumping around like a hyperactive little crack-monkey. You  
wanna settle down before you blow an aneurysm or something?"

Chavez grinned, not taking the jibe too seriously. He turned to the  
fridge, pulling out two Cokes, snapping both open and handing one to  
Mulder. He lifted his own can and said, "To the craziest thing I've  
ever heard. To Marcus, who's one intimidating fuck, but should know  
who his friends are. To Zito, who's obviously suffered a blow to the  
head. To . . . hell, to love and baseball, the two greatest things  
in the world."

He smiled at the sappiness of his toast, and Mulder rolled his eyes  
extravagantly, but clicked their cans together and took a long pull,  
his eyes shining and content as he looked at Chavez. "You do realize  
I'm gonna have to steal your camera, now, right? And throw it in the  
bay?"

Chavez nodded, saying with only a hint of sarcasm, "Please do.  
Thing's more trouble than it's worth."

Mulder grinned, and they stood there, drinking Coke in the flood of  
the summer light.

THE END


End file.
